Roses

By Cailin Powney

Roses have thorns and so do I. But the beauty of those flowers’ contrasts with my ugly soul, giving them a pass when they hurt others. My words cut through others before I can comprehend the meaning of what I’ve said. They cut into me, jagged, like a shard of broken glass you stumble upon on the floor. When you pick a rose, you’re careful, you inspect every edge, avoid what might hurt you. When you pick me, it’s sudden and it hurts. I grasp onto your soul for a moment, and it tears you—you never saw my sharp edges, because you never cared to look. I am temporarily at your mercy, equally submitting to you but tugging at the strings of your heart so it’s left with a hole that can only be filled with me. I’m a disease, a virus you can’t get rid of, infecting your brain, your only thought until you can’t resist giving in any longer. I know what I’m doing, as you know what you’re doing when you spit at me with the words you know I want to hear. You look at me with longing, hold me like I’m yours forever. Then you leave like the rest, but the cuts I inflicted on you will turn into scars, a forever reminder of what you had in that moment. And I’ll wait. Wait for the next time you reach out yet again—you like the pain. We can’t, but we will. As the rose wilts so will I, each encounter making me lose myself until I am rotting from the inside out. I hurt you because you hurt me. We hurt each other when we acted upon this knowing nothing could blossom.

 Roses have thorns, but so do I. And I will tear into you so you can’t forget me, as I can’t forget you.

By Cailin Powney